


Moonshine

by dalula



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Emetophilia, M/M, Moirails With Pails, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Quadrant Vacillation, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23141809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalula/pseuds/dalula
Summary: This is just vomit porn, dawg. You've been warned.
Relationships: Mituna Captor/Kurloz Makara
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Moonshine

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, this is disgusting

Mituna draws you closer with a hand against your neck and pulls you into a kiss. You can only reciprocate by pressing back firmly, rubbing your stitches against his mouth while he licks at the threads. It’s bittersweet to be so close and yet kept apart by a barrier of your own making; you long to slip inside him and choke him on your tongue. The tug of your stitches tells you to calm down but you aren't interested in heeding their warning, too set on claiming Mituna however you can. There are breathy whines bubbling from Mituna’s throat, deluging wet noises from his lips. His pointed nose grinds into your cheek with heedless desire, cartilage meeting bone with scant layers of flesh to separate them. You hold his face between your hands to keep him close and run your bare thumbs over his cheekbones, feeling the temperature difference between you. The heat radiates from his skin like the sun's rays, warming your cool fingers.

The two of you kneel on the floor, sitting back on your legs. Your knee presses against his crotch where you can feel warm moisture and a searching bulge nudge against you hopefully. His leg length doesn't match yours, being so much shorter, so you have nothing to grind onto to relieve your own ache. His hand drifts down your sides and over the expanse of your ass, copping a feel. He squeezes it in a decidedly unpale way, not that you're one to complain about quadrant blurring. You’d have Mituna anyway he wanted, even as burnt out and pan-fried as he is.

Despite how much you’re enjoying yourself, you wrench yourself away reluctantly to take out a pair of scissors from your sylladex. At the sight of them, he gives you a hopeful look, holding up his hand and making a snipping motion in the air.

“Can I?” He shouldn’t be trusted with sharp items but you’re weak for his hopeful expression. The shaking in his hand doesn’t fill you with confidence either but you believe he'll be careful, despite his spasms. His past experience has taught him to be cautious; he’s nicked you before when cutting your stitches and it sends him into violent fits of self-loathing that take hours to calm him down from. You’d rather avoid that right now.

You nod, smiling gently, and tilt your head to present your mouth to him.

He’s slow and methodical as he snips each thread, even as his shudders threaten to slice your lips. His fingers caress your mouth and skate over your skin as he pulls the fibres out. It’s nice, intimate. You feel close to him.

It’s harder for him to keep your moirallegiance equal levels of giving and taking since his accident, not that you mind. Your plans depend on you being alert and clear-headed. His pacifying you is nice, once in a while, to let the worst of your stress out but you know you can’t let yourself get too comfortable. It happened once before and look at what became of Meulin. So, you’ll take this moment. Savour it while you still can.

When he’s finished you pull away and look into his mismatched eyes. His gaze is open and vulnerable, cheeks already flushed from just your kisses. The tremors in his hands have settled down while he was distracted by his task but they return as he refocuses.

"Ready?" You sign.

With a nod, Mituna slides two fingers inside his mouth, all the way to the knuckle, while he watches you with a heated stare. He keeps eye contact even as he begins to gag around his digits and water brims in the corner of his red and blue gaze, clenching your arm with his free hand. His body shudders as it attempts to bring up his stomach's interior, drool frothing out from his mouth and trailing down his chin.

After a minute of no success, he finally relents.

"Can't. Can't, Loz." He shakes his head jerkily, the moisture welling in his eyes developing into tears of frustration.

You lean forward until your foreheads meet and sign the word _help_? He sniffles and nods, looking up at you with his big, infant barkbeast eyes.

Privately, you’re glad you get to do it yourself.

Tracing two fingertips across his jaw, you follow the defined line until you swerve up to reach his lips. They open pliantly for you to slide inside. You trace over the sharp edges of his fangs, pressing softly enough to avoid an accident and feel his warm breath fan over your skin as he breathes. Slipping further in, you glide against his tongue, making sure to stroke between the fork. He twitches and snickers, your gentle touch tickling him. He licks at you in revenge.

Kissing his forehead in affection and warning, you let your fingers slither deeper until you brush his uvula. His throat tightens against the intrusion and you press your fingers down against the resistance, forcing a cough. Mituna’s grip tightens on your arm but you don’t stop, continuing to sink down further and bear down on his tongue. You can’t force your fingers in any further as the webbing between them sits against the corners of his mouth, his throat already filled.

Without warning, there’s another gurgling choke and then a rush of burning liquid streaming around your hand. Mituna grasps hold of your wrist, keeping you stuck where you are, not that you had any plans to move away. You feel his throat contract around you as his body heaves another wave of vomit out of him, spewing onto both of your laps. It runs down his naked chest in watery rivulets and pools in the fabric of his jeans. Fuck, you want your bulge where your fingers are, thrusting it down his throat until he spews all over you.

He lets out a few more weak gags and a smaller stream pours down to the floor beneath you. His grip on you losens, allowing you to slide your fingers out of him. With the action over, the smell hits you with full force. The burnt, sour scent unique to stomach acid and vomit crawls into your nose and down your throat. 

You can't help yourself from slamming your mouth back onto his, harsher than you intended, giddy and aroused from what you've just watched. The kiss is wet with spit, tears and snot but that does nothing to quell your desperation. Opening your mouth for him, acrid bitterness coats what’s left of your tongue, instinctually making you gag in return. You want to return the favour and mark him with your own stomach’s own fluid but you’re too fixated on the way his tongue explores your mouth and rubs against the stub of your flavour receptor to pull away. It runs over the roof of your maw and between your fangs as if searching for something. A sharp inhale and the coppery taste of blood that floods your taste buds tells you that he's cut himself on your teeth.

"Ow," Mituna says against your lips. "Ow, ow, ow, ow."

You stroke his back soothingly, affection for your pan-fried best friend clenching your blood pusher. Dumb motherfucker.

"You know? Now. On me?" He looks up at you brightly.

Nodding, you rub your cheek against his the touch flushed with pale pheromones. He presses back firmly and whines. 

Reluctantly, you pull away to slide two fingers, still slick from his mouth, down your own throat. The left over taste that clings to your skin is tangy, encouraging your queasiness to rise. You're less careful with yourself; you poke and prod harshly at the clenching, silky flesh of your windpipe until your stomach clenches in protest. The heavy wave of nausea crashes through you, making way for the stream of vomit. Mituna arches forward into your heaving frame to allow the liquid to pour over him and mingle with his own putrid biofluid.

A familiar buzzing purr sounds from his throat at the sensation of being marked. He presses his mouth to the corner of your jaw and kisses, his nose nuzzling your scent gland. You're still choking on your own spittle as he goes to lick up the mess trailing down your chin and neck, cleaning you up like a lusus would their new grub. Breathing shakily through your mouth, you sit still and enjoy the sensation of being tongue bathed, wondering if this is what it would have felt like if Goatdad hadn’t left you alone.

Underneath the reek of stomach acid, the room is flushed with pheromones. Mostly pale, though the fond, soothing scent of redness lies comfortably underneath it. Sometimes you can’t help but mix your quadrants, especially with Mituna being so fucking pitiful. You’re comforted by his presence, warmth and smell and truthfully you could let yourself fall asleep just like this, in his arms, if you weren’t both covered in your own vomit.

You pull away.

"Get clean?" You sign.

He frowns, face so close his nose almost touches yours. The glaze over his eyes suggests he’s not fully cognizant.

"You are, I just fffucking cleaned you."

Shaking with silent laughter, you don't bother to argue. Instead, you throw him over your shoulder and march to the ablution trap, ignoring his loud as shit complaining.


End file.
